


Season's Ending

by Searofyr



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27724750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Searofyr/pseuds/Searofyr
Summary: Musings of Mordistair Kingsley, Dragonborn, on love, civil war, and the status quo.Skyrim 4E.
Relationships: Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Romlyn Dreth, Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Romlyn Dreth
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Season's Ending

What have I done to deserve this?

Not the Dragonborn situation; I know that had nothing to do with me. My ancestors did assorted things to deserve me being this. And from all I can tell, the relevant Divines see it as praise-worthy and an honour.

… So do I; it’s no use pretending I’m not that vain. I am.

No. This.

I know what I’ve _done_. I’ve followed the call of the Greybeards. I’ve mastered the shouts. I’ve put everything else back for the sake of Nirn, as anyone with a trace of common sense would have done even out of sheer self-interest – but as we all know, many people lack that trace of common sense. So despite the stumbling about, and despite my definite lack of being a warrior, it was lucky for us all that the task fell to me.

I’ve defeated Alduin, I’ve saved Nirn, and Sovngarde to that, and who knows how far this complex expands? So shouldn’t I get a break? No, I know how this works. My ancestor Nanacie even wrote of this in her epics and ballads. When the world and the Divines have chosen you, that’s it for you. (Her early works speak a more idealistic language of rewards and blissful quiet endings, but it seems she learned better over the years. They’re never quite done with you. There’s always something more.)

Here is what else I’ve done. I’ve prided myself on not getting mixed up with politics like so many of my kind over in High Rock. I’m a scholar, I’m a master of Conjuration, I pierce the mysteries of the Aurbis; I have no room for petty quarrels between jarls and kings and emperors. I stand above that.

In the middle of Alduin’s threat, I got them to a table to talk. I negotiated terms with them. I got them to cease hostilities for now. I achieved, if not peace, then still the closest to peace this country has seen in some years. 

And I was proud. I thought I’d gotten away with something. Avoided something. Achieved something respectable with minimal effort and judicious application of my mental faculties.

When it was all done, I did what I’d been wanting to do all this time. I went back to Riften to talk to the impossibly charming Dark Elf with the tall tales of his ancestor, the glowing eyes and raspy voice and reckless schemes, hoping he was still available. He was. Interested even. More than interested even. We matched the speed of the Nords around us.

I decided on a bit of a private joke between us, surrounded by Nords and their customs, and got an amulet of Mara to wear, and for all I told myself it was a joke, my heart beat in my chest as it last had before battle. But he picked up on it and said the right words, and suddenly things were very serious. We got married at daybreak.

And then we talked of the future, and where to live. While it hasn’t been a serious topic between us (though he knows), I _am_ the Dragonborn and can offer something more than what’s been afforded him in his life so far. And besides that, other than for his presence, I detest Riften. He’s not fond of it either. So we’re leaving.

He assumed, correctly, that I must have other places to stay. Asked where I generally liked it.

And I said with some embarrassment that there were a few houses, though I hadn’t put much thought into it because they were effort and I’d usually holed up in the College of Winterhold for convenience during my research. And research was always. You feel silly talking that way when sharing a narrow bed in a narrow room, down by the docks and always slightly flooded.

I said one house was an – in my estimate – overly generous reward by a jarl, and I’d never quite felt at home in it.

One house in Solitude had been in the possession of my family for many generations, although it was now dusty and would need repairs.

The one I felt I had actually worked for and was actually proud of was – and there I stopped.

“Out with it,” he said.

I said Windhelm.

And shook my head immediately. It was obvious this was not an option. How could it be?

“Let’s forget about Windhelm,” I said. “How does Solitude sound?”

He hadn’t been but liked the idea.

I said I hadn’t spent much time there yet, but I liked it. “And,” I added, “it has a strong Empire presence and is less monolithically Nord.” I said it as blithely as I could, a bit of scorn at something that affected us both, but neither of us is stupid, although I’ve been dense on occasion, and we both know I’m less affected than he is.

But Dunmer and their pride are inseparable, and so he took it and nodded and said, “That sounds good. I bet you need a break from that.”

“I do,” I agreed, “although I did like Sovngarde, I’ll say that much.” Pause. Reflect. Attack. “I’d like to take you along with me when it’s time for us. What do you say?”

He blinked, and then broke into hoarse laughter. “Sovngarde. Me.” Studied my face. “You’re serious.”

“I’m serious.”

“And they’ll have me?”

“Well,” I said, “if it’s the only way they’ll have me.”

He let out something between a hum and a purr. “The things you make me agree to. Well then, Sovngarde it is. But that still doesn’t solve our problem here. I intend for us to stay alive for a while longer. So, we’ve said, before Sovngarde something less ‘monolothically Nord’. I’m tired of it, too. And the mixture you get here in Riften is mostly criminals.”

His eyes flashed at that, and I grinned, recalling how we’d met and how, against better judgment and ensnared by his wit and those burning red eyes, I’d helped him embezzle mead. I made a reference to that, and he told me it was the best business decision he’d ever made, and the topic shifted predictably, and that was it.

But it’s not, is it? Yes, we are moving to Solitude, cleaning and repairing my inherited house, a very nice one in fact, gifted from one set of ancestors to another a long time ago, on a whim if the stories are to be believed.

Meanwhile, I cannot take my proud husband to Windhelm because of how his kind are treated there. And I watch what I say about living in different parts of Skyrim so as not to hurt his pride unduly. He’s a staunch realist, except when it comes to tall tales over mead, but I love this mer and want him to be able to hold his head high.

I’m the Dragonborn. Because of my ancestors, but I’ve fulfilled my role. Or so I thought.

There’s no break; there can be no break. I am someone who can cause change when others can’t. That’s a fact.

The temporary peace was a shuffling of the inconvenient under the bear rug, where it stays nice and warm and festers. Which is what you do when your world is about to end.

Now we still have a world. And we have to live in it.

It’s what I didn’t do that made me deserve this.

I proposed Solitude for its strong presence of the Empire. This, and its ensuing living conditions, is what makes the city suitable for us both.

Windhelm, not so much. And we all know whom we have to blame for that.

I’ve been able to do something about Alduin. Should one jarl really be the problem I can’t get rid of? I don’t think so.

My other ancestors, the Imperial patriots I've met in Sovngarde, will be pleased. Maybe not with my motivation. Although one of them was said to be a staunch protector of Morrowind in her time. So perhaps she will.

It’s time for Ulfric Stormcloak’s reign and this season of false peace to end. And for me to bring that end about.

Time for another war.


End file.
